Author: powshredder

Today was the third and final day of my “avy 1” course, taught by Sierra Mountain Guides. This marks the second wilderness-y course I’ve taken where the school portion was in an RV park’s common area, the first being my WFR.

While it’s still fresh in my head, here’s my thoughts on the course. Most of this is the AIARE curriculum mind you, none of my negatives are at the feet of Sierra Mountain Guides. In fact, they’re a super top notch organization. My instructors were experienced, personable, and solid at teaching.

Avy 1 is a whole bunch of people poking around in the backcountry. Part of my class.

There were maybe ~24 students in the class with four instructors, and folks traveled from San Diego, Orange County, and Los Angeles for the course. Only a few of us were locals. Additionally, the snow this season has been utter garbage so it was hard for our instructors to really show us dangerous snow conditions because frankly there is almost none in the Eastern Sierra right now.

What went well and what I think the big takeaway is that I learned the framework of how to properly prepare a safe backcountry trip. I learned how important your companions are, how much you need to gel with them, and how much risk you can dodge by terrain selection. If you eyeball the fatal avalanche data, you can note that slides under 30 degrees are rare. And 30 degrees is actually pretty steep, if you look at something like “the wall“. So if you stick to intermediate-esque backcountry runs (with nothing bigger around or above that can run-out into you) you’ve effectively eliminated your avalanche risk: poof-walla.

There’s obviously more to learn in 3 full days time than the above paragraph, but hopefully it shows that there are smart terrain choices you can make that slash your risk considerably.

Digging and studying snow pits.

Possibly the least interesting part of the course for me was the snow-science itself. On SAR I’ve learned that everyone has some stuff they’re really into and other stuff they’re just not as excited by. Maybe you like rigging, maybe you like medicine, maybe you like snowmobiles: you probably aren’t interested equally in all three but in SAR you have to be trained on a dozen different disciplines whether you’re into them or not.

Data from looking at the snow. Was there an avalanche 100 yards away from where you are now? Is there a big ass cornice staring at you? Etc.

In reality you need to know the faceting and depth hoar processes as building blocks to understanding what they do in a snowpack which of course means you need to know how to identify them in the first place. If you’re venturing into avalanche terrain, and even just knowing what avalanche terrain even is, you really should get trained up.

Thinking a little harder, another thing about this course versus most of my medical ones is that in medicine it’s about people’s lives. It’s important and you cannot screw it up. With avalanches it’s almost always about allowing people to recreate and have fun, which just doesn’t have the reality check that exists in rescue medicine.

I guess I’ll see you in the backcountry, but I’m sticking to the coward slopes. They’re safer on the way down and easier on the way up.

In total our power was out for about three days last year. A squirrel chewed through a line (or so it was reported), a truck backed into a power pole, and the last one I never heard the scoop on but it lasted a while.

These are just generally inconvenient but mid-winter it can be a different bag of potatoes. We could keep from dying I suppose by hopping in one of the cars: even if we couldn’t drive due to snow conditions we could keep the vents and exhaust shoveled out and just sit there in a nice warm cab. But that sounds absolutely horrible so I set out to get something more baller.

The noisy and heavy part: the generator.

I opted for the Champion 3800, which is really more like 3500 watts at our altitude. It was $500, has an awesome reputation, and burns either gasoline or propane with the flip of a switch.

Propane is more expensive and harder to come by, but it never goes bad. The tank can get cold, and it produces less power than gasoline, but it starts up easier and it’s pretty hard to spill propane on your hands. The exhaust doesn’t stink that much. We have a 30LB tank hanging around.

Gasoline is cheaper, puts out more power, and is easier to come by. We have about 20 gallons, with fuel stabilizer mixed in. Come summer time the gas goes into the cars, and a new batch is put in the tanks with stabilizer again.

So ignore the unpatched drywall and focus on the spanking new electronics.

The previous owners had run multiple circuits to single breakers and installed a sub panel (huge hole there) because they ran out of space on the 1975 original panel that came with the house. There were all kinds of blank marker arrows and drawings, the thing was a mess and it drove me nuts. As would be said on the waterfront, it was chickenshit work.

You could, if you’re a horrible person who likes killing others and setting your own house on fire, plug your generator directly into the outlet where your clothes dryer plugs in. The problem here is you are sending current out into your house and back into the power lines. Chances are if you’re running a generator it’s because the power is out and guess what electrical crews need to work with? That’s right, the electricity you’re sending out even though they think they turned all the power off.

A lineman for SoCal Edison was electrocuted last year by this very thing.

The generator plugs in here, so no need to have a cable snaking through a door or window.

So instead we use an awesome generator transfer switch. Beyond the safety, it’s wired directly into your main circuit breakers so you pick (in advance) what you want powered. For us it’s the pellet stove (heat), the fridge (food), the hot water heater, the lights in the kitchen and living room, and the television/PS4. Even our broadband gear will work if the outage isn’t impacting some other part of the network.

It was fun to walk around and read the current requirements from the various things we wanted to run at the same time. Interestingly enough, you need to balance the load between the two phases of electricity or some such. I’m not sure of the details but basically (on my unit) you want A+B == E+F, more or less. It shouldn’t be totally lopsided.

The super awesome generator transfer switch.

We tested it, and everything works great. Normally the circuits we care about are in “line” mode, so they’re powered by the regular power lines. If we flip them to “gen”, the generator will handle them. They can’t be in both, so no worries about sending current back out or having mismatched sine waves (for those super geeks reading this).

Plus, the circuits you’re not running on the generator are just sitting there waiting for normal line power so when the lights come on down the hall you know everything’s up again.

Cheap and can be used for any 12v battery.

The only other item you may want to consider is a battery charger. I picked up a small unit for $20 and every few months that the generator hasn’t run I toss it onto the generator’s small 12v motorcycle-ish battery. There’s a pull cord to start but those are no fun.

So the next time the power’s out in Mammoth swing on by. We’ll have hot showers, cold drinks, warm air, and Call of Duty multiplayer.

On Monday I was driving home from San Diego on Highway 72 and traffic came to a stop in a place it normally doesn’t. I was behind a big rig but couldn’t see much, so I grabbed my phone and checked my messages. After a few moments I heard someone say “accident”. I peered out, didn’t see any flashing lights, and got that EMS feeling.

Most of the time, things aren’t an emergency. Even “emergencies” usually unfold slowly and you have a minutes if not hours to correct things. Actual no-kidding emergencies where the stuff hits the fan are, fortunately, rare. The EMS feeling is my stomach dropping an inch or two, thinking “oh shit, is this for real?”

I pulled off to the side and saw multiple vehicles ahead. Some on the shoulders, some flipped over on their backs, some so smashed to pieces I couldn’t tell what they were or in what position.

Try to determine if it’s “safe” to touch someone in the white truck. Broken glass, sharp metal, and blood.

Someone started yelling at me to stay back. Instantly my training kicked in: scene size up. Is it safe for me? How many patients? How many rescuers? I looked at the guy yelling at me to not go in: he was a civilian, there were no red and blue lights anywhere, and if there was anyone in there that I could help, fuck you, I’m rolling in.

Is it safe for me? Hard to tell. I had my exam gloves which offers me razor thin protection, but it was a debris field of gasoline and gear old, car parts, walking wounded mulling about like zombies from a horror flick. How the hell do you determine what “safe” is in something like that? One step at a time, I told myself.

How many rescuers? One, counting me.

How many patients? Again, hard to tell. If they’re walking, I’m not interested in them at the moment. Take me to the worst and most terrible: I was pointed towards two vehicles that looked like soda cans crushed for recycling.

I didn’t even know how to access them. In one vehicle, if I crouched down, I could see a body part hanging down with bones sticking out. The “safe” part kicked in and I realized that I wasn’t a firefighter anymore with extrication tools, a team, and turnout gear. I pounded on the vehicle and listened: nothing.

I moved to the second vehicle. Air bags had been deployed: lots of them. Curtain air bags, steering wheel air bag, side air bags, the works. The un-moving person was in their seat belt.

I yelled that I was here to help. No response. I reached into the mangled metal cage and squeezed tight for a carotid pulse. Did I feel one, or was that my own adrenaline? For a moment I felt the faintest movement, deep inside the neck. I probed around more. I check a lot of pulses and the carotid is by far the easiest and most pronounced: even on a baby you can find it within a second.

As a I kept probing all I felt was warm soft skin.

A few minutes later, I couldn’t really tell you how many, a CHP car raced in. I explained who I was, my level of training, and what I was up to. He nodded and thanked me for stopping and asked me to keep working the scene. There wasn’t much to do as all signs pointed towards death. The kind of death you don’t come back from. The physics required to bend metal and send cars flying airborne is simply more than ample to cause massive hemorrhaging in nearly every part of the human body. Brain and heart, in particular.

Ten minutes after the police arrived a fire rescue team rolled in. I gave my assessment and findings, and got out of their way. I read the news this morning and saw that both drivers were pronounced dead at the scene.

I spent the rest of my drive home calling my wife, and then two of my friends: one cop and one fellow sar. The next day I went snowboarding by myself for a while. I’m still not “okay” with seeing and feeling so much death and carnage. But everyone, including you and me, will die. If you’re an EMT you’ll see it more often than a librarian.

Be good to each other out there. Leave lots of follow distance when driving. If you care about someone let them know. And don’t think the safety features in your car have made Newtonian physics obsolete.

A friend of mine asked me some questions about my last post (finished my WEMT) and I thought the answers might be helpful for others out there.

What was your favourite part of the course?

Having people in it who had some serious experience. Two guys were heli-ski operators, one guy was a mine rescue technician, several were guides, one guy got shot in the chest point blank, and the instructor is a paramedic who has patients she can’t transport for up to 48 hours because of weather and general Alaskan-remoteness.

In a normal world I’m the most outdoorsy-medical guy around, so it was really humbling and level setting to be around others who experience near daily horror stories and handle them with grace.

What was your least favourite?

I think from an annoyance prospective it was dealing with state and local protocols which are basically always a little out of date with current research. You learn and get tested on some things that aren’t in the best interest of your patients because it takes years for medicine to change (great example: back boards and traction splints, medieval torture devices that are still on most rescue inventories).

At a personal level it was going through scenarios that I had never considered. Like a pediatric with multiple gunshot wounds or a woman who just had a miscarriage, sitting on a toilet, and you being the person who’s going to manage that scene and bring calm. I think everyone has situations that hit them hard in the emotional department, and you never really know what they’ll be until you’re in it or perhaps after the fact.

What surprised you the most?

How quickly a talented person can burn through a primary assessment, establish an airway, stop major bleeds, and prep for transport. It’s like less than a minute (tops) if you’re good, complete with all the gore/mayhem/ppe/bsi/safety.

Going back to the last one, it was also the scenarios that I hadn’t considered. Using a plastic model to practice sticking your hands into a vagina to push a baby’s face off a prolapsed cord and keep the airway patent. Or how to deal with excited/agitated delirium. They’re not scenarios I really signed up to handle, but if you’re functioning as an EMT in an urban setting you can’t pick and choose your patients.

Also, how easy it is to get a bp via a pedal pulse and a cuff on the thigh on a neonate now that I know what I’m doing.

Have you done the NREMT yet, and was it different than what you learned in class?

I’m an Alaskan EMT-1, and have applied for my NREMT course but haven’t taken the test yet. If you’re taking a state’s written and practicals I would really focus on that (which is different than wilderness protocols, which is different than NREMT) because you need to pass it to move on and remembering multiple protocols is rough. It’s a bit dumb because I had to memorize Alaskan procedures I’ll never do in California, but conflicting and head-scratching protocols seem to be the name of the game with medicine in general. Most things are right, but some protocols are bad and just haven’t been fixed yet.

But in general Alaskan and NREMT protocols overlap probably 90%. Dyspnea is dyspnea, a biphasic AED is a biphasic AED, and COPD is COPD. The differences are more subtle like: emphysema patient with a 2LPM nasal cannula complaining of difficulty breathing. Do you crank up the flow a bit or swap her out for a NRM at 15LPM? Either way you’re increasing their O2 but what’s the specific blow-by-blow protocol? Did you need to use pulse oximetry and if so how? Stuff like that.

My sample tests I’ve taken for NREMT are going well; there’s a few items that are new but nothing mindblowing.

Are you planning on working as an EMT, or did you just do the class for the knowledge?

I think like sailing you suck unless you do it so I’m going to try to work at the local hospital maybe 20 hours a month covering other people’s shifts. My neighbors are trauma surgeons at the local hospital so if I’m lucky I can work with them, or try to hang in the ER in general.

I studied vital sign ranges before the class but from taking literally over 100 blood pressures from various people I actually learned way more about the ranges and concreted in the numbers. Ages and sex matters it seems but I learned that a skinny 14 year old girl probably just has a really low BP and that for little pediatrics I’m high as a kite if I think I can get them to sit still. So the practical application seems to be part of the knowledge to me, if that makes sense.

Do you plan to register in California by county?

So after I get through NREMT I’m going to hit up the hospital in town and just say “Hey, I’m a NREMT EMT-B, what else should I do and what other training would be helpful?” I think there’s ancillary stuff they’ll want too like phlebotomy, probably some blood borne pathogen training, etc. It’s a super rural county so I’m expecting some hoops but probably not a million.

What extra study materials would you recommend?

I was based out of the “Brady Book”, it was the major text we used in conjunction with our wilderness stuff. I bought the workbook along with it and burned through those chapters doing the work before the class. It was probably 100 hours of my life I’ll never get back but the pathophysiology really helped and I liked learning why a pulse oximeter sucks for CO poisoning, as an example.

My learning style is that I need to understand the whole circle and then I can branch out so I felt like (for me) I really need to go ham on the textbook and know underlying health-nerd stuff that there just isn’t enough time in a lecture to cover.

Also, really knowing a lot of the abbreviations and medical terms help. Writing tx is way faster than treatment, ditto pt for patient, hx for history, etc. Sometimes people toss out things like npo and it sucks to have to stop and say, “Huh?”. Yeah, they should speak in normal English but around hospitals they don’t and it’s pretty available info.

In class I made flashcards of things I didn’t understand.

Are there any extra non-study materials you’d recommend?

I made good use of 3×5 flashcards (in addition to pre-made NREMT ones), highlighters, a notebook, and rite-in-the-rain for outdoor stuff. For field scenarios and on actual sar callouts I have WMA’s field guide. It’s 4″x6″ (same size as my rite-in-the-rain book), and both fit in my radio chest harness pocket. On real ops I thumb through it for whatever the suspected injury is to remind myself what the hell I’m doing. There’s also some dope stuff in the back on litter tie-ins, chopper stuff, and medical terms. For whatever field team I’m in I’ll read it out loud (before we get to the patient) and we can discuss what to look for, who’s doing what, what gear we’ll need, what complications we might see, etc.

I just have the boring rite-in-the-rain 4″x6″ because I end up jotting down notes from witnesses, cops, other teams, etc. I’ll write a SOAP and try to format it well enough. In sar land I hand it off to the chopper/ambulance and ask them to give it to the receiving facility as well.

Anything else?

Just because I took so many damn blood pressures I’ll add that quickly being able to ballpark the systolic on a patient, rapidly getting there, then rapidly getting down to the diastolic then rapidly deflating completely is the difference between pro bp readings and torturing a patient by keeping what is essentially a tourniquet on their arm whilst futzing around trying to find their brachial artery for a minute solid.

For two weeks I lived, ate, and breathed emergency medicine up in Skagway, Alaska. I met some amazing people and as an aside I definitely want to write up an entire in-depth post/book/article about not so much the course but the trajectories of those involved. Think about it for a minute: who exactly are the cast of characters already armed with their WFR who are going to spend weeks of their lives up in Skagway learning a super persnickety version of medicine? But first, here are some pictures (some others on my Instagram account too).

My class. Bent down in the middle is a former CHP trooper, and current paramedic in a fairly remote part of Alaska. When she spoke, everyone shut up and listened.

On my one day off I hiked with a classmate up to some lakes near the far end of the Juneau Icefield.

The incredibly new and awesome fire department building, where I spent most of my waking hours for two weeks.

Being in the “south east”, as Skagway is referred to we were actually in a temperate rain forest. As such it rained *constantly*. With the exception of pavement and well worn trails everything else was covered by copious amounts of plant life. The roofs of buildings had green moss, and I dare you to find a single square foot of raw dirt in the area.

Skagway’s main business is the constant stream of cruise ships dropping off passengers. These folks buy ice cream cones, jewelry, t-shirts, and have a few beers. As such the majority of the town residents cater to these people. This shot was taken the day after “Last Ship Day”, and shows the ghost town that Skagway becomes after the final cruise ship of fall.

Wilderness EMTs pass all the regular “in town” EMT training, but then we also have to perform the skills with less gear in jacked up environments and handle longer transport times plus coordinate our transport decisions. This photo was from a campfire after one of our nighttime simulation trainings, somewhere in the Alaskan woods.

When not in the woods, we trained in the firehouse using the gear from Skagway’s ambulance, sar, and fire teams.

My bunk and living space for a few weeks.

The kitchen that myself and four others shared. Thanks to the dog sled gang from Alaskan Icefield Expeditions who let us use their bunkhouse while they were off somewhere else. I left you guys some fishsticks and 3/4 of a bottle of vodka.

When not in the field or the engine bays, it was classroom land. I of course sat in the back because that’s where the cool kids go.

It was an awesome course: no way around it. Being up in Alaska, especially in such a small town, really focused the laser beam on what I needed to do. In the evenings we did assessments and simulations at the bunkhouse, otherwise we’d be out in town taking vitals on random strangers. I’ve probably taken the blood pressure of every child and barstool drunk in Skagway. I’ve auscultated the lungs of infants, found pedal pulses for systolic/palpation readings on neonates, and observed COPD sufferers. Protip: stay healthy, don’t get obese, and don’t smoke cigarettes.

We made jokes about putting a grim reaper sticker on your ambulance every time you screw up and someone suffers, and I watched one of the toughest people I know cry when he discussed a friend who slid in an avalanche and was attacked by a grizzly. The snowstorm cut their visibility down to near zero and as they moved his blood soaked trauma-ridden body out of the avalanche burial. He could still hear the grizzly somewhere close, howling in the hidden whiteout as he provided treatment.

The day after we finished our state practicals we found out about the Las Vegas mass shooting. As the eternal optimist, a silver lining to me was on a day of such madness and mayhem 18 more people walked back into society with the sole intention to help others in their hours of greatest need. It doesn’t cancel out horror or balance the ledger, but it buttressed me a bit to personally know such dedicated professionals that would have been those headed towards the danger.

If any of my classmates ever stumble across this blog entry, I can’t wait to work with you again in the future. Dangling from a chopper or a cliff, pushing the skinny pedal code 3 to a sick child, or just making someone feel better who’s having a bad day: I’d be proud to be there with you.

Yes, as soon as I got home I popped that shit on my sar chest harness. I know I’m on the lowest end of medical professional but here’s me being proud.

We’re living up the lazy days of summer right now in Mammoth Lakes. Temperatures hit 80 during mid day: a regular Mammoth heat wave. But #WinterIsComing so it’s time to button up all the outdoor and winter-esque projects. Even taking a whizz outside becomes a challenge, what with the gloves and snow pants. Imagine trying to do some finish carpentry.

A big thing I wanted to do was put in a new coat rack. Something stout, woodsy, and with tons of hooks. Something I would see every time I walked in or out of my house, and something I would use multiple times a day. Something like this:

My finished product.

To start with, we had a piece of crap that came with the house. It had four pegs (one that broke), a mirror, and a sort-of shelf. It was also small. A family of four could make it work, but when friends came over it was a zoo.

The old coat rack. Hat and shades to show scale.

I started my project nearly a year ago over at Drake Wood Milling. In the “forest products” area of Mammoth’s industrial area, I left a couple of unanswered voicemails and eventually just hung around like a poltergeist in the typical uncomfortable and socially awkward setting that is industrial work areas.

Any sailors know what it’s like to walk around in a boat yard. Sure, it might be your boat on the straps and your money paying the invoice but basically you’re a nuisance and everyone wants you to leave.

Once I met Bob Drake though he couldn’t have been any more helpful or fair. We picked out a slab of wood with “living edges” and chopped it to size.

Bob Drake doing his thing on my future coat rack.

The slab I got was roughly 70″ long and 30″ wide, although the width fluctuates due to the natural variability of the trunk. I wanted the bark edges because they look dope as hell but had to figure out a way to treat them.

I opted for Ace’s spray-on clear polyurethane to hit the bark on the sides and Minwax’s Polycrylic for the exposed wood. It doesn’t really have to deal with UV, but it does have to deal with abrasion. I wanted something physically durable, shows the natural wood, that can be easily touched up, cleaned with water, and if I re-apply in the house won’t gas off xylene.

My template (and drill) on the wall.

The damn thing weighed over 100 pounds and could easily have another 50 with stuff hanging off so it needed to be ridiculously secure. I took a cardboard box, split it down the middle, and used it for my template. Pilot holes went into the studs which were the conventional 16″ spacing.

Moving a piece of cardboard around is much easier than moving a 100lb slab of wood.

The real pro-tip I’d have for anyone doing this is to consider the fasteners. I opted for bolt-head 3/8″ lag screws with 1″ OD washers, counter-sunk using a 1″ spade paddle bit. Reverse the paddle bit for the first centimeter or so to keep chunking to a minimum, then advance slowly with minimal pressure, doing maybe a single revolution in forward then back to reverse.

But start those holes with a small (~1/4″) bit (the same one you used on the studs). The spade bits need that small hole to act as a pilot. Until the countersunk 1″ holes are in, the pilot holes exit the back of the wood, and the small pilot holes are in the studs, don’t reach for your big bit that will actually accommodate the real screws.

1″ OD washers not pictured. These bad boys aren’t going anywhere, and while pulling it off to repaint the wall won’t be fun it’s certainly designed to do so. 3/8″ x 5″

Once on the wall, I had massive 1″ holes staring at me where the bolts and washers were exposed. I grabbed the fasteners and finish products from the local Ace, but the Do-It-Center had the 1″ plugs that I was lucky enough to be able to pound in. A few coats of finish on them, start them in the holes, a piece of sacrificial wood over them flat, and then pound. To remove and re-access the fasteners rock a < 1″ spade bit after you put a small pilot hole, then break them apart.

On the bottom left there, sort of in the middle of the shot you can see one of the eight 1″ holes countersunk in.

For hooks and exposed hardware I wanted to stick with the rustic thing and fell in love with bent railroad ties. They’re recycled from old railroad lines and hand-bent by small craftsmen. We eventually settled on some local-ish hand forged iron deer figures for our shades and keys.

It’s amazing how much work can go into making something look like no work was put into it at all.

Our shoe organizers are mounted underneath the coat rack (not pictured), so my next project might be to mount some small fans in the top which will circulate air up to the coats and hats hanging around. Something dripping with caked snow still belongs over by the heater but some air circulation blowing on the coat rack should help things considerably. The same low noise muffin fan I used for my boot-glove-stuff dryer will probably get enlisted.

So hopefully that gives you some ideas if you’re looking to build a coat rack of your own, especially if a massive assortment of winter gear is par for the course.

Summer finally got started a couple of weeks ago in early August. The insane 16/17 snowpack left much of the High Sierras covered in snow all the way through July and the melting snow created happy breeding grounds for mosquitoes. When not sliding on hardpack snow you were getting eaten alive by bugs: party time.

But no matter: I could still go for a run, ride my bike, climb a rock, and drive off road. These things and many like them are laughable pursuits mid-winter. There’s a lot to be said for just hopping in your car and driving away, without thinking about warming it up, scraping ice, timing the snow plows, and digging. The digging never stops.

Super cool part of living in Mammoth: “going out for a walk” looks like this.

But just like that, the thermostat space heater in my office clicked on the other morning. Instead of having our bedroom window wide open at nights it’s been slowly closing more and more until last night when (with three blankets) I woke up cold and shut it completely. Pellet prices go up in a month. There’s less than 90 days until Mammoth opens for skiing/boarding. In short: #WinterIsComing.

And winter is a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong. Everything is harder. Your hands are in gloves nearly all the time so doing any kind of detailed work outside (automotive, construction, etc) is brought to a halt. Travel schedules get blown out, and portions of your home (like a deck or yard) become effectively off limits.

But with that comes simplicity as well. Armed with a season pass, a board, and some insulated clothes I can spend copious amounts of free time shredding. With my new splitboard this year and snowmobiles (cool kids call them sleds) for sar I need to qualify on, there is a lot to do. The days are shorter and the activity options reduced so “lazy summer days” are a thing of the past. It’s time to hustle either to stay alive (pellets, shoveling, driving and not dying) or time to hustle to enjoy life.

Winter. One night did this.

When you walk out and see your truck sitting there looking like the above, and you have a list of a few things that need to get done that day, things get very straight forward.

I had a friend who told me that people who live in far northern (and far southern) climates tend to be harder working and more industrious than our more equatorial and horse-latitude dwelling brethren. The idea being that in areas with harsher seasons you have to figure out your winter plans and equip yourself during the summer or you simply won’t live to see spring. Conversely in a more mild climate you can get still go out mid winter and find some food, plus you won’t freeze to death.

Obviously modern society has negated this a bit and not a lot of folks are dropping dead in our mountain town of malnourishment. The Donner Party excluded, the rest of us can find something to eat at Vons.

I’ve been reluctant to write about the 16/17 winter because of how powerful it was and like a victim of abuse every cloud still makes me jumpy imagining three feet of snow is about to drop. Not knowing what’s in store for next winter is part of the fun: will it be another snowpocalypse, fueled by some new twist of climate change? Or will we get barely any snow and my cool snowgear will just collect dust as I lament the snow-less terrain.